Chapter Text
When the two of you blearily staggered out of Clint’s room, it was to an oddly immaculate living room. Before they’d left, Sam, Rogue, and Remy had done a hell of a cleaning job, despite being drunk themselves.
“Southerners at their best,” you said, softly in awe as you took in the room. It was like you hadn’t projectile vomited all over. Going a step further, it didn't even look like anyone had even come over.
“I’ll say,” Clint said, going to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Bless him.
All of the food had been put up, with the exception of Clint’s lonely casserole dish. There was a note pinned to it, and as you moved closer, you realized it was Rogue’s graceful scrawl.
“Dear Sugarbee and Baby Bird -
We had a blast! Love ya both.
Baby Bird, tell Kate she has a hell of a recipe.
Lots of love and kisses,
Rogue.”
Lifting the tinfoil, you couldn’t help but to smile. Somehow, Clint had figured out how to make a sort of s’mores lasagna - layers of graham crackers overlaid with delicately toasted marshmallow and decadent chocolate. So what if it was totally made by his girlfriend? As much as your stomach wanted to protest, the sweetness of it was too much for you to resist, and you ran a finger around a space of bare pan. Rogue and company had left about a third of the pan for the two of you to share - because they were the best. Knowing Rogue’s sweet tooth, you knew it took a monumental act of willpower for her to leave any.
You hadn’t realized that you’d gone from absently running your finger for crumbs to sneaking smaller bites until Clint’s voice startled you.
“You know, I can get a knife and some forks and a plate.” He was watching you, his eyes bright above the rim of the coffee pot as he lifted it to his lips and drank straight from it. Normally, you would’ve grimaced, but now, you had to admit that he was on to something.
“Save some of that for me.”
“Already did,” and he tilted his head to the coffee cup that had somehow magically appeared in front of you. “I put that down in front of you like five minutes ago. You’re spacing out pretty bad. You okay, Vomit Comet?”
“You can take that nickname and go straight to Hell.” You ran your finger around the rim of the coffee cup. The light didn’t seem to hold such a murderous intent against you, but your stomach still felt like it was plotting against you.
“I speak out of love only,” he said, setting down the coffee pot. “So…about last night…”
“What about it?” Your tone was sharper than you wanted it to be, -because, girlfriend named KATE- and you both winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so nasty.”
“I’ll chalk it up to your hangover.” He took a deep breath, before lifting the coffee pot back to his lips. “So…” He started again, his tone far more cautious, “Some…stuff…was said.”
“What kind of ‘stuff’?” You had an idea, but wanted to know how bad it actually was. Sam wasn’t kidding about liquor loosening your tongue.
“That you thought I sang like an angel. And that you never pegged me for a Whitney Houston fan. And some stuff about love. Like you said you loved me. Repeatedly. Over and over and over and-” You weren’t entirely sure of his expression behind the coffee pot, but you were certain it was pompous. There was no way it wasn’t. And maybe it was part of the hang over, but it hurt your feelings. You couldn’t remember that much about last night, it was true, but you weren’t the kind of person who lied - let alone about something as serious as love. Yes, there was always something a little silly about drunk confessions, but it was too soon for him to be teasing you over it. Not with what all he hadn’t been telling you.
“It’s entirely too early for this conversation.” You hoped that the anger wasn’t as clear in your voice as it felt. “I should get on my way; thanks for making sure I didn’t die in my sleep!” You hopped off the bar stool you were sitting on, and started hunting for your clothes - at least your shoes. “I’ll wash your stuff and get it back to you!”
“Now, hold on, (your name).” An edge of steel was in his voice, and it was enough to stop you in your tracks. You’d never heard Clint take such an authoritative tone with…well, anything. Much to your chagrin, you stopped, and sighed, tilting your head back.
“You’re just going to tease me about whatever happened, and I don’t need that.” You turned to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. His face folded into surprise - then he looked contrite.
“I’m sorry, (your name). I didn’t meant to tease.” He trailed off, setting the coffee pot down.
“Yeah, I bet. You think it’s hilarious that drinking makes people say things that they don’t mean.”
That hard look you’d seen him give Remy crossed his face, and he picked up the coffee pot again, taking a sip. When he set it down again, he didn’t look at you.
“I get it. Booze makes us say weird stuff,” he sounded injured, but he kept talking before you could suss out how he actually felt, “It makes us do weird stuff, too. But something happened last night and I don’t know what it was. What it is. Do you?” His expression was unreadable.
You ran a hand through your hair nervously. You vaguely remembered Remy saying something about making sure that your powers didn’t leak, and you couldn’t remember digging into anyone’s aura. Hell, despite the raging hangover ramming at your shields, you couldn’t pick up a single thing from him. You were essentially flying blind.
“Clint…” You had no idea how you felt - it was entirely too early, but you couldn’t deny the pull. How you’d come to look forward to his random drop ins, the easy cadence of his voice, the side he showed you that you felt no one else got to see…And, against your better judgement, you focused nearly all of your brain capacity to using your power. You needed to see his aura, and you needed to see it now. He exploded around you, varying waves of purple. God, you’d gotten that initial read wrong. Clint wasn’t expressing lust - purple was his baseline color. There was the orange of comfort, still warm, still living, still pulsing, the deep emerald of friendship, and threaded through it all was the glittering pink, the pink that you knew beyond a doubt…And it was deepening the longer you looked at it. You quickly pulled out, before you ended up inadvertently pulling it out with you. Some emotions, in particular, strong ones, could cling to you even though you had no intention of using their power. Clint was crushing on you, and he was crushing on you hard.
BUT he also had a girlfriend named Kate, and you had that thing with Steve, whatever IT was, and Steve was technically there first, and -
He set down the coffee pot, and walked over to you. Placing his hands on your shoulders, he smoothed down the fabric over your shoulders. He lowered his head a little, and, on instinct, you stood up on your tiptoes, his breath brushing across your lips, a murmured whisper slipping from him… “(Your name), I…”
“Ah-hem.”
At the new voice, the two of you sprang apart. You felt a guilty flush rise to your cheeks. He. Had. A. Girlfriend. You couldn’t be doing this!
“What happened in here last night?” It was Tony Stark - and not just Tony, but Steve, Natasha, and Bruce behind him. Natasha fixed you with a cool green stare, and Bruce was attempting to look everywhere but at you. Steve’s face was unreadable.
This looks bad.
It had to look bad.
Clint was shirtless, clearly suffering from a lack of sleep, and you were in his clothes and clearly had just rolled out of bed. It’d be a charming, intimate little scene of two lovers - if it had happened anywhere else and with anyone else.
“I can explain-,” Clint started, before he was cut off by the sound of Tony tut-tutting.
“Don’t have to, Legolas. I won’t duel you for the hand of our fair Scarlett,” he drawled, batting those long eyelashes at him. “Seriously, though, good job. Stay on her good side so she can come over more often. Scarlett,” and Tony was off and away, giving you a jaunty two fingered salute. Bruce gave you a slight nod of acknowledgement as he passed, following Tony as they (presumably) headed down to his workshop.
You could’ve heard a pin drop in the living room. You, Natasha, Clint, and Steve were caught in the world’s most awkward standoff, and you suddenly didn’t feel so well again. Clint seemed to wilt under Natasha’s questioning gaze, and Steve was soldier rigid, formal and cool.
It was Natasha who spoke first.
“Well.” It was a statement, question, and accusation all rolled into one.
Steve stood at her side, looking down at the floor, steeling himself before he looked up at the two of you. Even from this distance, you could see the struggle in his eyes. A part of you was instantly indignant - who was he to judge you? You’d gone out with him once - as FRIENDS-, and since then, not even so much as a word. He was never around when you were, and it wasn’t like he didn’t have your number. Somehow Clint always made the time to text (even if it was just asking for food, seeing if you were at home, or how to spell something), and drop by your place. Clint talked to you. Steve had been a distant, glorious star - the thing that childhood crushes were made for. And now he had the gall to look disappointed?
But, oh, that face! As angry as you wanted to be with him for complicating your life far more than you ever wanted it to be (you were the type that liked to watch drama unfold from a safe distance), you were angrier at yourself. Had you even really given Steve a chance? You had his number, too. You hadn’t called or texted since that night - you hadn’t known what to say. If there was even a possibility of pursuing things further with him. You’d convinced yourself the day after your night out that there was no possible way. Steve was Steve - wonderful, pure, Steve - and you were hot mess incarnate. And Clint totally had a girlfriend so now he was also hot mess incarnate.
“It’s…good to see you, (your name),” he said, finally, and it nearly broke your heart. Clint looked at him, then at you, and you could sense the gears turning. To say nothing of the somewhat shocked expression on his face.
“I can explain,” he started again, this time turning to face Steve, his voice firmer, but it was all too much for you. Rogue was right. You hadn’t thought any of this through, hadn’t given any thought to anyone else’s feelings and just rode blindly on your gut instinct. You weren’t about to cry in front of these folks, but you were feeling the burning prick of tears as you gathered what was left of your dignity, pulled your head up high, and said,
“I’m going to be sick.”